Yeah Imm not gonna finish this just take it
The deep rhythm of the sorrow-strung guitar weighed heavily on Viewax’s head, hanging ruefully low, watching the juice in his cup wave back and forth. It was all so impressive. The band influenced every single thing around them with every single instrument and inflection of a word. A blue woman sang of dwindling moonlight in her ashen-raspy voice, a broad knight kept his rigid back turned away from a crowd that hungered to look at him head-on, an archaeologist tapped at their drums— energetic and young, swaying to the beat they were birthing, and an infamous alien with his eyes turned grey swayed with his guitar as if they were twin cyclamen, or perhaps lilacs, perhaps they were all lilacs, perhaps only one.
These were the bonded flowers who had tugged Viewax’s head forcefully from his ass. Now he watched them play the funeral procession disguised as a concert. Neon lights dragged their fingers down his spikes, turning red into orange, into yellow, into brown, into fuzzy amalgamations that he didn’t recognize as part of him. His body had become a blur of whatever the band wanted to make of him.
He hoped and prayed they would make him into something better; a sharp, upwards riff could pull him out of this hole he’d dug. But no matter what the guitarist played, Viewax stayed vaguely miserable, casting glances around in hopes of intercepting a smile not even meant for him. He bumped into members of the crowd just to have something to apologize to. Ten, twenty, fifty apologies. But when the guitarist caught his eye, he had nothing to say.
So he made up for it after the show, finding them behind the curtains, certain he looked leagues more pathetic than anyone had ever seen. He couldn’t feel his lips or his forearms or the tips of his fingers. They couldn’t drum the juice out of his cup and he drank every bit.
Viewax caught the tail-ends of a conversation, the sound of a high-five; “A wonderful show, indeed, yes! The practice paid off tenfold—” from the drummer. “Yeah, yeah, he’s just good with his fingers—” from the guitarist. And “Quiet, you—” from the knight.
Only the blue woman looked up when he swept the curtain aside, as everyone else was occupied with their instruments and each other. She sat languidly on a crate with her poncho pooling around her, just as lazy as her lidded eyes suggested her to be. She brought down the lighter that was preparing to spark a joint and tilted her head.
